Free Surrender by Donna Malane Page B

black-clad women was hunched together in the pew nearest the coffin. I was pretty sure the one in the middle was Snow’s mother Maureen, which would make the props on either side Snow’s twin sisters Peaches and Cream. Could have been worse, I guess. They could have been called Bubble and Squeak or Benson and Hedges. I remembered Sean telling me that Snow’s first criminal offence had been a charge of assaulting Peaches. The remainder of the congregation had given this central cast a wide berth.
    Looking around the room, I recognised a few of the small- and not-so-small-time crims Snow must have had dealings with. Okay, maybe they were his friends, too, although it’s not easy to think of your little sister’s killer having friends or being liked by anyone. The cops scattered through the congregation stuck out like the proverbials. It wasn’t so much their dress, though they all had that tidy-casual look adopted only by guys who have been in the forces, spent their formative years in boarding schools, or who play golf. It was the way they stood, legs slightly apart, hands clasped in front of their genitals, head slightly bowed, that gave them away. I watched as one of these cops lifted his sleeve to his mouth, as if to stifle a cough. He was wired, in both senses of the word. I could tell from his shoulders and neck muscles that he was tense.
    Someone had ordered Snow to murder my sister. A year later someone had killed Snow using exactly the same method. That looked like a message to me and I was pretty sure by the number of cops in the church that they thought the same. The crims might be Snow’s friends but I was willing to bet that every one of the cops was there on business. The wired cop was scanning the room,studying each face, memorising it. I did the same. The cops knew, and I knew, that there was a good chance Snow’s killer would show.
    The entrance of the priest brought everyone shuffling to their feet, blocking my view of the congregation. As master of ceremonies the priest made a little speech about forgiveness, but I wasn’t buying it. I tuned out by studying the neck of the guy two rows in front of me. Something about it was familiar. I’d seen it recently.
    As if feeling my X-ray eyes, he half turned and lifted a hand in greeting. I’d seen him at the strip club. I scanned my memory for his name. Dope … Spiff … Stoke! That was it. Even that night he’d seemed familiar, but I’d put it down to his uncanny resemblance to Wolf. His scruffy-haired hangdog look was definitely German Shepherdish.
    The priest led the mourners into the first song. I couldn’t imagine who chose Dean Martin singing ‘Green Green Grass of Home’. I hate singing in public. I’ve been known to mime ‘Happy Birthday’ at friends’ parties but I didn’t even bother with that pretence for Snow. I kept my mouth clamped and tried to figure out why Stoke had seemed so familiar at the club, and even more in this different environment. Or maybe not so different. I guess the worship of sex and the worship of God have a kind of synergy.
    I picked out Stoke’s voice as he volumed up for the chorus. And suddenly I remembered. My skin went cold and the sub-sandwich reminded me it hadn’t been digested yet. It was the singing. I remembered him singing. I’d heard Stoke singing at Niki’s funeral. And I’d heard him sobbing.
    The funeral reached its finale. Snow stayed dead in his coffin. I couldn’t ask for more.
    Keeping Stoke in my sights, I joined the stragglers as they filed out. The wired cop was right behind Stoke, shadowing him. I slowed my step — it wouldn’t be smart to be caught on tape talkingto a suspect. I was picturing the look on McFay’s face if he heard about that particular field tape, when I felt an all-too-familiar hand in the small of my back. The kind of familiarity only an ex-husband exercises. I allowed Sean to shepherd me into an alcove next to the room where sandwiches and sausage rolls were